


i promise i'll do better, i will soften every edge

by cagetraumasam



Category: Supernatural
Genre: 14.07 Coda, Gen, References to Illness, Sam Winchester is Jack Kline's Parent
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-12
Updated: 2018-12-12
Packaged: 2019-09-17 04:57:04
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,511
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16968096
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cagetraumasam/pseuds/cagetraumasam
Summary: Sam’s hands know brutal all too well, but gentle is harder. Gentle is an effort. But with Jack, he wants that. He wants to be able to be that for him.





	i promise i'll do better, i will soften every edge

**Author's Note:**

> uhhhhh this is two weeks late and barely edited!
> 
> i basically really just wanted more of sam's reaction after watching 14.07, and even though we got more sam feels in 14.08, i still feel like posting this so. here you go!
> 
> this ISN'T jack dying btw, it's sam taking care of him in a moment between 14.07 and 14.08. but there are references to jack's illness and the fact that he's dying so if that's upsetting for you pls take care of urself!!
> 
> also the title is taken from the lyrics of 'light' by sleeping at last go listen IMMEDIATELY and then cry about sam and jack with me
> 
> sorry the notes are so ineloquent and also in lowercase, i Am Tired
> 
> <3 i hope you enjoy! <3

It’s been a few days, now. They’ve all been taking turns, waiting at Jack’s side, being with him, making sure he’s not alone. That’s what scares Sam most, he thinks, what keeps him so hesitant to leave, even when his eyes are burning with the need (but not the desire) to sleep; the idea that Jack could feel alone in all this pain, the idea that he could die alone with no one around to ease him through it. To comfort him. Sam doesn’t want to be there to see the rise and fall of his chest diminish, he doesn’t want to hear Jack’s pained gasps, to watch the light escape from his eyes in his prematurely final moments—but the only thing worse than watching Jack die would be leaving him alone like this. Sam could never do that to him, and he can’t imagine not being there for him at a time like this, no matter how much it will hurt when he dies. _If_ , he reminds himself, clings to the thought desperately. _If_ he dies. (He ignores the pit in his stomach as he remembers the look on Rowena’s face when she told them there was nothing to be done.)

It already hurts. It hurts to see him suffering so much, and in so much pain. It hurts to know that there’s nothing Sam can do for him, other than this, which just… isn’t enough. It’s not as though he isn’t trying, albeit useless and pathetically; even when Cas or Dean come and manage to convince him to sleep a little while, he doesn’t manage more than an uneasy hour or two before making his way to the library, scouring the Men of Letters’ books for answers that he knows that they won’t have, that they _need_ to have.

They’ve been taking turns, but Sam’s been getting more and more frustrated at his lack of ability to do anything useful. Dean and Cas are both working leads, but Sam’s not holding out hope. Hope used to be something that he clung to, but with this, he just… he’s not sure he can. If Rowena says that this is it, he’s pretty sure it is. He’s walking the walk, of course, he’ll do anything that means Jack might even have half a shot at surviving—but he’s also barely left Jack’s side in the last two days. At least here, he can offer what meager comfort there is to be given. Jack’s in and out, and doesn’t seem to register much half the time when he’s conscious, but Sam thinks maybe just his presence is enough to soothe at least a little. He hopes. That’s what he can hope for now.

(Distantly, in the moments when Jack is out cold and his breathing is too shallow for Sam to be alright with, he thinks of Chuck, and tries not to swell with anger. With rage. He’d tried, he’d really tried, to hold onto the wonder that he’d once held in his faith, but he just can’t anymore. Not with this. Sam doesn’t mean to pray, not really, but he finds himself thinking words like _you can’t just_ and _why would you_ and _take him away_ and _please_. There are other words too, words of condemnation, and the bitter part of him hopes that Chuck is listening, though he knows he’ll never get an answer. Divinity’s never exactly been on his side.)

When Jack stirs, it’s been a few hours since he last woke, and this time he seems more aware of himself, though no less grievously ill. He blinks slowly, not bothering to lift his head from the pillow, but turns it slightly so as to face Sam.

“Hi,” he says softly. He’s trying to smile, but Sam can see the tears threatening to spill from his eyes. He wants to reach out, wants to smooth the wrinkles in the blanket as though that could somehow heal him, but he hesitates. He hates himself for hesitating.

“Hey, buddy,” Sam smiles back, though he imagines it looks plastered on and strained.

“You… okay?” Jack manages, but his voice cracks in the middle and he’s coughing and there’s blood and _oh god, there’s blood_. Sam reaches for the tissues they’ve been keeping on the nightstand because it’s become familiar territory at this point (and yet he’s still not used to it, he’ll never get used to it). He leans forward and swipes at the blood dripping from Jack’s mouth as gently as he can. Sam’s not really sure he ever quite manages at gentle, he’s always been so big and awkward and he never quite knows how to fit in a room unless it’s for killing. He thinks he might have, at one point, but he’s long-since forgotten. Sam’s hands know brutal all too well, but gentle is harder. Gentle is an effort. But with Jack, he wants that. He wants to be able to be that for him.

“You don’t need to worry about me. You should focus on yourself.”

“I would really rather not,” Jack says, this time with a wry smile and if Sam wasn’t so damn scared he might chuckle. For all the ways that they aren’t connected, there’s a million more that they are, and apparently, pushing away the bad feelings is one of them. Maybe he wouldn’t chuckle. Maybe he’d cry.

Sam would kind of like to cry, right now. Normally, it’s not something he indulges in. Not if he can help it. It feels too raw, too helpless. But if Jack dies, he’s not sure he’ll be able to hold back any longer.

He’s not sure he’ll ever be the same.

“I’m sorry,” Jack whispers, closes his eyes tight. Sam shakes his head and takes Jack’s hand, threading their fingers together. Gentle.

“Nothing to be sorry for, Jack. This isn’t your fault.”

“I should have told all of you sooner that I… that I was sick.”

Sam’s shaking his head, blinking back the dreaded tears, trying not to choke on his words as he says, “it’s not… it’s not exactly like I’ve been around much, lately.”

Jack blinks. “Sam, that’s not—” he starts to say but he’s coughing again, and has to reach for his mask to cough into. It’s a long fit, and only stops several moments later. Sam isn’t sure if he should look away to give him some privacy or try to help him through it. He settles for placing a comforting hand on his shoulder.

After several long moments, Jack sets the mask back on the side table and looks to Sam.

“It hurts,” he whimpers, and Sam’s heart _shatters._ He’d give anything for Jack to not have to know what pain like this is, but it’s too late for that, now.

“I know,” he says softly. “I’m sorry.” Which is such a _useless_ thing to say, sorry doesn’t stop it, sorry doesn’t help anyone, sorry is—

This isn’t what Jack needs right now. Sam can spiral down into a pit of self-loathing later, if it comes to that, but Cas and Dean are out looking for something and Sam’s here and Jack _needs_ him.

“ ‘s so hot…” Jack murmurs and Sam sits a little straighter and looks, again, to the table, because _this_ he planned for, _this_ he can do something with. He grabs the washcloth and stands.

“I’ll be right back, okay? I promise.”

It only takes him forty-five seconds to wet the cloth under the sink faucet and wring it out, but that’s forty-five seconds too long. Jack is at the tail end of another fit by the time he gets back, and it’s all Sam can do not to _sprint_ to him.

“Hey, hey, hey, I’m right here, I’m right here, Jack, it’s okay,” he sits back down and places a careful hand to Jack’s side. He uses his other hand to bring the cloth to Jack’s forehead, and he’s muttering the whole way through. Half of it is nonsense, he’s pretty sure, and he’s not sure whether it’s for Jack’s benefit or his own.

“That… that feels nice,” Jack whispers. Sam slips the hand that’s resting at Jack’s side down to one of Jack’s hands and intertwines their fingers, squeezing tight.

“Then I’ll keep doing it.”

Jack hums in response, but doesn’t say anything else. They stay like that for a long time. Jack’s eyes are closed, and after a while Sam’s pretty sure he’s drifted back into unconsciousness, but then Jack squeezes his hand again.

“You need to… if I… I love you. Dad. I love you, Dad…”

The hand holding the cloth stills and Sam feels his mouth part and the tears catch in his throat. It’s a moment before he can find the voice or the strength to answer.

“I love you too,” he says, but it’s so soft and Jack’s so far gone that he’s not sure it was heard. In fact, right now, he’s sure of one thing and one thing only:

Cas was right. Losing a son feels different.

**Author's Note:**

> thanks for reading! i hope you enjoyed! come shout at me @cagetraumasam on tumblr if you feel so inclined. <3


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